The Great Impersonation

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “I should esteem it an immense privilege,” Dominey said, “to be given a private reading of these memoirs.”

  “That may be arranged,” was the suave reply. “In the meantime, Von Ragastein, I want you to reconsider your position here.”

  “My position is not voluntary,” Dominey repeated. “I am acting under orders.”

  “Precisely,” the other acquiesced, “but matters have changed very much during the last six months. Even at the risk of offending France, England is showing wonderful pliability with regard to our claims in Morocco. Every prospect of disagreement between our two countries upon any vital matter has now disappeared.”

  “Unless,” Dominey said thoughtfully, “the desire for war should come, not from Downing Street but from Potsdam.”

  “We serve an honourable master,” Terniloff declared sternly, “and he has shown me his mind. His will is for peace, and for the great triumphs to which our country is already entitled by reason of her supremacy in industry, in commerce, in character and in genius. These are the weapons which will make Germany the greatest Power in the world. No empire has ever hewn its way to permanent glory by the sword alone. We have reached our stations, I see. Come to me after this drive is finished, my host. All that I have said so far has been by way of prelude.”

  The weather had turned drier, the snow was crisp, and a little party of women from the Hall reached the guns before the beaters were through the wood. Caroline and Stephanie both took their places by Dominey’s side. The former, however, after a few minutes passed on to Terniloff’s stand. Stephanie and Dominey were alone for the first time since their stormy interview in the library.

  “Has Maurice been talking to you?” she asked a little abruptly.

  “His Excellency and I are, to tell you the truth,” Dominey confessed, “in the midst of a most interesting conversation.”

  “Has he spoken to you about me?”

  “Your name has not yet been mentioned.”

  She made a little grimace. In her wonderful furs and Russian turban hat she made rather a striking picture against the background of snow.

  “An interesting conversation in which my name has not been mentioned!” she repeated satirically.

  “I think you were coming into it before very long,” Dominey assured her. “His Excellency warned me that all he had said so far was merely the prelude to a matter of larger importance.”

  Stephanie smiled.

  “Dear Maurice is so diplomatic,” she murmured. “I am perfectly certain he is going to begin by remonstrating with you for your shocking treatment of me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted for a few minutes by the sport. Dominey called the faithful Middleton to his side for a further supply of cartridges. Stephanie bided her time, which came when the beaters at last emerged from the wood.

  “Shocking,” Stephanie repeated, reverting to their conversation, “is the mildest word in my vocabulary which I can apply to your treatment of me. Honestly, Leopold, I feel bruised all over inside. My pride is humbled.”

  “It is because you look at the matter only from a feminine point of view,” Dominey persisted.

  “And you,” she answered in a low tone, “once the fondest and the most passionate of lovers, only from a political one. You think a great deal of your country, Leopold. Have I no claims upon you?”

  “Upon Everard Dominey, none,” he insisted. “When the time comes, and Leopold von Ragastein can claim all that is his right, believe me, you will have no cause to complain of coldness or dilatoriness. He will have only one thought, only one hope—to end the torture of these years of separation as speedily as may be.”

  The strained look passed from her face. Her tone became more natural.

  “But, dear,” she pleaded, “there is no need to wait. Your Sovereign gives you permission. Your political chief will more than endorse it.”

  “I am on the spot,” Dominey replied, “and believe me I know what is safest and best. I cannot live as two men and keep my face steadfast to the world. The Prince, however, has not spoken to me yet. I will hear what he has to say.”

  Stephanie turned a little haughtily away.

  “You are putting me in the position of a suppliant!” she exclaimed. “Tonight we must have an understanding.”

  The little party moved on all together to another cover. Rosamund had joined them and hung on to Dominey’s arm with delight. The brisk walk across the park had brought colour to her cheeks. She walked with all the free and vigorous grace of a healthy woman. Dominey found himself watching her, as she deserted him a little later on to stand by Terniloff’s side, with a little thrill of tangled emotions. He felt a touch on his arm. Stephanie, who was passing with another of the guns, paused to whisper in his ear:

  “There might be a greater danger—one that has evaded even your cautious mind—in overplaying your part!”

  Dominey was taken possession of by Caroline on their walk to the next stand. She planted herself on a shooting stick by his side and commenced to take him roundly to task.

  “My dear Everard,” she said, “you are one of the most wonderful examples of the reformed rake I ever met! You have even acquired respectability. For heaven’s sake, don’t disappoint us all!”

  “I seem to be rather good at that,” Dominey observed a little drearily.

  “Well, you are the master of your own actions, are you not?” she asked. “What I want to say in plain words is, don’t go and make a fool of yourself with Stephanie.”

  “I have not the least intention of doing anything of the sort.”

  “Well, she has! Mark my words, Everard, I know that woman. She is clever and brilliant and anything else you like, but for some reason or other she has set her mind upon you. She looks at dear little Rosamund as though she hadn’t a right to exist. Don’t look so sorry for yourself. You must have encouraged her.”

  Dominey was silent. Fortunately, the exigencies of the next few minutes demanded it. His cousin waited patiently until there came a pause in the shooting.

  “Now let me hear what you have to say for yourself, sir? So far as I can see, you’ve been quite sweet to your wife, and she adores you. If you want to have an affair with the Princess, don’t begin it here. You’ll have your wife ill again if you make her jealous.”

  “My dear Caroline, there will be no affair between Stephanie and me. Of that you may rest assured.”

  “You mean to say that this is altogether on her side, then?” Caroline persisted.

  “You exaggerate her demeanour,” he replied, “but even if what you suggest were true—”

  “Oh, I don’t want a lot of protestations!” she interrupted. “I am not saying that you encourage her much, because I don’t believe you do. All I want to point out is that, having really brought your wife back almost to health, you must be extraordinarily and wonderfully careful. If you want to talk nonsense with Stephanie, do it in Belgrave Square.”

  Dominey was watching the gyrations of a falling pheasant. His left hand was stretched out towards the cartridge bag which Caroline was holding. He clasped her fingers for a moment before he helped himself.

  “You are rather a dear,” he said. “I would not do anything to hurt Rosamund for the world.”

  “If you can’t get rid of your old tricks altogether and must flirt,” she remarked, “well, I’m always somewhere about. Rosamund wouldn’t mind me, because there are a few grey hairs in my sandy ones.—And here comes your man across the park—looks as though he had a message for you. So long as nothing has happened to your cook, I feel that I could face ill tidings with composure.”

  Dominey found himself watching with fixed eyes the approach of his rather sad-faced manservant through the snow. Parkins was not dressed for such an enterprise, nor did he seem in any way to relish it. His was the stern march of duty, and, curiously enough, Dominey felt
from the moment he caught sight of him that he was in some respects a messenger of Fate. Yet the message which he delivered, when at last he reached his master’s side, was in no way alarming.

  “A person of the name of Miller has arrived here, sir,” he announced, “from Norwich. He is, I understand, a foreigner of some sort, who has recently landed in this country. I found it a little difficult to understand him, but her Highness’s maid conversed with him in German, and I understand that he either is or brings you a message from a certain Doctor Schmidt, with whom you were acquainted in Africa.”

  The warning whistle blew at that moment, and Dominey swung round and stood at attention. His behaviour was perfectly normal. He let a hen pheasant pass over his head, and brought down a cock from very nearly the limit distance. He reloaded before he turned to Parkins.

  “Is this person in a hurry?” he said.

  “By no means, sir,” the man replied. “I told him that you would not be back until three or four o’clock, and he is quite content to wait.”

  Dominey nodded.

  “Look after him yourself then, Parkins,” he directed. “We shall not be shooting late today. Very likely I will send Mr. Seaman back to talk to him.”

  The man raised his hat respectfully and turned back towards the house. Caroline was watching her companion curiously.

  “Do you find many of your acquaintances in Africa look you up, Everard?” she asked.

  “Except for Seaman,” Dominey replied, looking through the barrels of his gun, “who really does not count because we crossed together, this is my first visitor from the land of fortune. I expect there will be plenty of them by and by, though. Colonials have a wonderful habit of sticking to one another.”

  Chapter XXI

  There was nothing in the least alarming about the appearance of Mr. Ludwig Miller. He had been exceedingly well entertained in the butler’s private sitting-room and had the air of having done full justice to the hospitality which had been offered him. He rose to his feet at Dominey’s entrance and stood at attention. But for some slight indications of military training, he would have passed anywhere as a highly respectable retired tradesman.

  “Sir Everard Dominey?” he enquired.

  Dominey nodded assent. “That is my name. Have I seen you before?”

  The man shook his head. “I am a cousin of Doctor Schmidt. I arrived in the Colony from Rhodesia, after your Excellency had left.”

  “And how is the doctor?”

  “My cousin is, as always, busy but in excellent health,” was the reply. “He sends his respectful compliments and his good wishes. Also this letter.”

  With a little flourish the man produced an envelope inscribed:

  To Sir Everard Dominey, Baronet,

  Dominey Hall,

  In the County of Norfolk,

  England.

  Dominey broke the seal just as Seaman entered.

  “A messenger here from Doctor Schmidt, an acquaintance of mine in East Africa,” he announced. “Mr. Seaman came home from South Africa with me,” he explained to his visitor.

  The two men looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Dominey watched them, fascinated. Neither betrayed himself by even the fall of an eyelid. Yet Dominey, his perceptive powers at their very keenest in this moment which instinct told him was one of crisis, felt the unspoken, unbetokened recognition which passed between them. Some commonplace remark was uttered and responded to. Dominey read the few lines which seemed to take him back for a moment to another world:

  Honoured and Honourable Sir,

  I send you my heartiest and most respectful greeting. Of the progress of all matters here you will learn from another source.

  I recommend to your notice and kindness my cousin, the bearer of this letter—Mr. Ludwig Miller. He will lay before you certain circumstances of which it is advisable for you to have knowledge. You may speak freely with him. He is in all respects to be trusted.

  (Signed) Karl Schmidt

  “Your cousin is a little mysterious,” Dominey remarked, as he passed the letter to Seaman. “Come, what about these circumstances?”

  Ludwig Miller looked around the little room and then at Seaman. Dominey affected to misunderstand his hesitation.

  “Our friend here knows everything,” he declared. “You can speak to him as to myself.”

  The man began as one who has a story to tell.

  “My errand here is to warn you,” he said, “that the Englishman whom you left for dead at Big Bend, on the banks of the Blue River, has been heard of in another part of Africa.”

  Dominey shook his head incredulously. “I hope you have not come all this way to tell me that! The man was dead.”

  “My cousin himself,” Miller continued, “was hard to convince. The man left his encampment with whisky enough to kill him, thirst enough to drink it all, and no food.”

  “So I found him,” Dominey assented, “deserted by his boys and raving. To silence him forever was a child’s task.”

  “The task, however, was unperformed,” the other persisted. “From three places in the Colony he has been heard of, struggling to make his way to the coast.”

  “Does he call himself by his own name?” Dominey asked.

  “He does not,” Miller admitted. “My cousin, however, desired me to point out to you the fact that in any case he would probably be shy of doing so. He is behaving in an absurd manner; he is in a very weakly state; and without a doubt he is to some degree insane. Nevertheless, the fact remains that he is in the Colony, or was three months ago, and that if he succeeds in reaching the coast you may at any time be surprised by a visit from him here. I am sent to warn you in order that you may take what steps may be necessary and not be placed at a disadvantage if he should appear.”

  “This is queer news you have brought us, Miller,” Seaman said thoughtfully.

  “It is news which greatly disturbed Doctor Schmidt,” the man replied. “He has had the natives up one after the other for cross-examination. Nothing can shake their story.”

  “If we believed it,” Seaman continued, “this other European, if he had business in this direction, might walk in here at any moment.”

  “It was to warn you of that possibility that I am here.”

  “How much do you know personally,” Seaman asked, “of the existent circumstances?”

  The man shook his head vaguely.

  “I know nothing,” he admitted. “I went out to East Africa some years ago, and I have been a trader in Mozambique in a small way. I supplied outfits for officers and hospitals and sportsmen. Now and then I have to return to Europe to buy fresh stock. Doctor Schmidt knew that, and he came to see me just before I sailed. He first thought of writing a very long letter. Afterwards he changed his mind. He wrote only those few lines I brought, but he told me those other things.”

  “You have remembered all that he told you?” Dominey asked.

  “I can think of nothing else,” was the reply, after a moment’s pause. “The whole affair has been a great worry to Doctor Schmidt. There are things connected with it which he has never understood, things connected with it which he has always found mysterious.”

  “Hence your presence here, Johann Wolff, eh?” Seaman asked, in an altered tone.

  The visitor’s expression remained unchanged except for the faint surprise which shone out of his blue eyes.

  “Johann Wolff,” he repeated. “That is not my name. I am Ludwig Miller, and I know nothing of this matter beyond what I have told you. I am just a messenger.”

  “Once in Vienna and twice in Cracow, my friend, we have met,” Seaman reminded him softly but very insistently.

  The other shook his head gently. “A mistake. I have been in Vienna once, many years ago, but Cracow never.”

  “You have no idea with whom you are talking?”

  “Herr Seam
an was the name, I understood.”

  “It is a very good name,” Seaman scoffed. “Look here and think.”

  He undid his coat and waistcoat and displayed a plain vest of chamois leather. Attached to the left-hand side of it was a bronze decoration, with lettering and a number. Miller stared at it blankly and shook his head.

  “Information Department, Bureau Twelve, password—‘The Day is coming,’” Seaman continued, dropping his voice.

  His listener shook his head and smiled with the puzzled ignorance of a child.

  “The gentleman mistakes me for some one else,” he replied. “I know nothing of these things.”

  Seaman sat and studied this obstinate visitor for several minutes without speaking, his finger tips pressed together, his eyebrows gently contracted. His vis-à-vis endured this scrutiny without flinching, calm, phlegmatic, the very prototype of the bourgeois German of the tradesman class.

  “Do you propose,” Dominey enquired, “to stay in these parts long?”

  “One or two days—a week, perhaps,” was the indifferent answer. “I have a cousin in Norwich who makes toys. I love the English country. I spend my holiday here, perhaps.”

  “Just so,” Seaman muttered grimly. “The English country under a foot of snow! So you have nothing more to say to me, Johann Wolff?”

  “I have executed my mission to his Excellency,” was the apologetic reply. “I am sorry to have caused displeasure to you, Herr Seaman.”

  The latter rose to his feet. Dominey had already turned towards the door.

  “You will spend the night here, of course, Mr. Miller?” he invited. “I dare say Mr. Seaman would like to have another talk with you in the morning.”

  “I shall gladly spend the night here, your Excellency,” was the polite reply. “I do not think that I have anything to say, however, which would interest your friend.”

  “You are making a great mistake, Wolff,” Seaman declared angrily. “I am your superior in the Service, and your attitude towards me is indefensible.”

  “If the gentleman would only believe,” the culprit begged, “that he is mistaking me for some one else!”